Blood and Cross
by Lalaith Quetzalli
Summary: (One-Shot) Mycroft was working on finding a way to get his brother pardoned for the murder of Magnussen when something unexpected happened: someone else claimed responsibility for the hit. But why would one of the greatest assassins in the world, the Cross claim a murder that wasn't his? (Begins pre-Sherlock's exile) HLV Fix-It - Slash - Minor crossover with Wanted


I don't own Sherlock... or Wanted. And once again, you need not have watched the movie. (It's from 2008, main characters played by James McAvoy and Angelina Jolie, in case you're interested).

I have no beta, and am not British, please forgive any mistakes.

* * *

 **Blood and Cross**

" _You want to remember Sherlock, I was a soldier, I killed people!" JW_

John Watson stopped on a coffee-shop on his way to the small practice where he worked that morning. She'd forgone breakfast, again, after the previous night's fight with his wife. It seemed that fight was all they did lately, made him wonder what that meant for the next years. If he was honest with himself the only reason he wasn't already considering a divorce was the unborn baby. John knew that no matter how upset and sometime downright livid he might be with Mary, it was not in any way hid to-be-daughter's fault.

He was patiently waiting for the barista to have his order ready when he noticed something completely unexpected. On a stand with a number of papers and magazines there was one that called John's attention straight away. The cover showed a picture of Charles Magnussen with his half-smile half-sneer and a huge headline that read: _'Media Magnate Crossed-Off'_. In a second John was holding the magazine on one hand, the other dialing a number, coffee all but forgotten:

"Mycroft!" He called loudly the moment the man on the other side answered. "Have you seen what just came out... No, of course this isn't my bloody fault! … Then why? …"

As expected, the call was ended from the other end without John getting much. Two minutes later a black car was right outside the shop. John didn't even bother asking questions or demanding explanations, he just took the coffee and slipped into the car.

A quarter of an hour later he was being lead into Mycroft's office, where the man seemed to be having quite a serious argument with someone over the phone, while his PA (whom John still knew as Anthea) looked more flustered than ever before as she typed almost madly on the keyboard before one of the computers in the room.

"Just what is going on Mycroft?" John demanded as soon as the door was closed behind him. "I thought you said nothing could be known about what had happened that day in Appledore."

"Indeed, Dr. Watson." Mycroft murmured as he hung-up the phone. "Someone has spoken out of turn, given too much information, even with the rather fantastical twist in the end."

"I suppose it'd have been impossible for you to keep a tight enough hold on everyone who was in that place that night." John admitted with a huff.

"That's where you have it wrong." The politician stated. "I have kept a tight hold on every single one of those policemen and agents, on their communications. I'm reasonably certain none of them are responsible for what has appeared in that magazine."

"And what?" John demanded, defensive. "You think I did it?"

"Not at all John." Mycroft reassured him, before adding: "I'm quite sure you would have done it, if you'd had the means to create such a case. And it's precisely because you don't, that I know it wasn't you who did this..."

Build such a case... yes. Because the truly shocking part about the aforementioned article in that magazine wasn't truly the revelation of Magnussen's murder (though only very few people had known that for fact, before the morning); no, the shocking part was that, according to the article, the individual responsible for the murder, was Cross...

Cross was an assassin, the best of best, almost an urban-legend to most. He had at least two dozen confirmed kills, and many, many more were suspected to have been his work too. There had been rumors at one time, of him being part of some kind of organization, a 'Fraternity' of some kind, of assassins that worked across the world. Of course the idea of such a thing was more fantastical and less believable than a single man accumulating more than fifty kills to his name, especially when, even those the authorities had gotten proof of, no one had ever been able to catch him.

"So, if you don't think I did anything him, why am I here?" John asked, intrigued as he sat.

"I'm intrigued as to what you might know about Cross." Mycroft commented, sitting across from John and observing him very carefully.

"Why would I know anything about him?" John asked, face kept carefully blank.

"Because he's the one that gave you the wound that got you honorably discharged from the army." Mycroft drawled in an almost bored tone.

John couldn't help it, he tensed up abruptly.

"How can you possibly know that?" The former-army-captain blurted out before he could even try to stop himself.

"The splinter the doctors in France recovered from your wound." Mycroft answered calmly. "Apparently, while the soldier the shot was ultimately meant for died and most of the remains of the bullet stayed with him, a very small piece seemed to break aside when it went through your shoulder. The medics to treat you in Afghanistan didn't find it, but those in France did. They did not give it much importance of course..."

"But you did." John finished for him, letting out a breath as he accepted that it was probably pointless to try and keep something like that secret from a man like Mycroft.

"I did." Mycroft agreed, then made a pause before adding. "I have to admit I did not expect you to take this so calmly, John..."

"You know him, don't you doctor?" Anthea spoke up unexpectedly. "The man who shot you, Cross. You know him..."

"I wouldn't say I know him." The former military-man stated after a prolonged silence. "The bloody bastard approached me after that shot." He took a deep breath, marshaling his thoughts as he chose his words with utmost care. "As I'm sure you must know, if you've read the reports, I was with my unit, we were supposed to be providing back-up for an American sniper and his team when we found ourselves in the middle of an ambush. Really, the Americans were the true objective, we just happened to be there. As soon as we managed to break the initial confrontation, which was very important as we were sitting ducks, at the mercy of any possible enemy snipers as soon as we stayed there, we split. That was mostly accidental, but it still happened. Collins and I, we ended running across an extension of desert with many dunes but few places that could offer any real protection. We'd been walking for a while when I stumbled, it was completely accidental, but in Collins's attempt to keep me standing, he went down himself; at the same time a bullet went into his right leg, nicking the femoral artery. It wouldn't have killed him, but it was still quite bad."

John briefly pressed a hand to his own right thigh. He might have gotten rid of that old limp (psychosomatic as it might have been) a long time ago, thanks to Sherlock, but he could still remember the feeling all too clearly.

"He yelled at me to run." John went on. "Began spouting some bullshit about fate catching up with him or something like that."

"But you couldn't do that, could you John?" Mycroft deduced. "You're a doctor as much as you're a soldier, you could have never left an injured comrade to his luck."

"No, of course I couldn't have." John agreed. "So I knelt beside him and began doing my best to treat him. Not that it did much good in the end..."

He kept things out. Like the fact that he'd purposefully place himself in such a way that he would be able to at least partially shield the injured soldier (he'd seen where the shot came from and could infer the rest from that). That there had been at least two warning shots, and a lot insistence on Collins part that he moved, and he'd refused summarily, before that final bullet was shot, going straight through his shoulder and into Collins' heart.

"I assume you've read in my records that when the other team found me I was half-unconscious from blood-loss already, possibly delusional, laying in the shadow of a dune." John stated.

"It also says there was a field dressing on your shoulder; that it was probably the only reason you didn't actually bleed to death before being found." Anthea added quietly.

"Indeed." The former soldier nodded. "You know, most people actually think I dressed the wound myself? Like such a thing is actually possible..."

"No, it's not." Anthea agreed, being former MI5 herself, she probably knew about such thing. "But then who could have... No..."

John stared straight at her, he could practically see as the realization filled him.

"Cross?!" She cried out.

Mycroft didn't say a word, John imagined he'd deduced most of it from the moment John had mentioned Cross approaching him after the shot.

"Yes." John nodded as blankly as he could. "According to him, he was there to kill Collins, not me. Even if I was being bloody stubborn." He shrugged, his shoulder tingling at the memory of those events. "He claimed to be a servant of fate, meant to kill one to protect a thousand."

"Kill one to protect a thousand?" Anthea repeated, disbelief coloring her tone.

"Never said the bastard was sane." John reminded her. "Though..."

"Tough?" She prompted.

"After that day, the surgeries and everything else..." He made a pause, as if considering how to explain things. "There was an inquiry over the events, mostly from the Americans. Since Collins was one of them I was called too. Someone told me they'd found out Collins was helping a group that made their money through sex-trafficking. Apparently he'd used his military credentials to move a few girls and children across the border. No one had known until his superiors went through his things after his death."

It appeared no one, not even Mycroft, quite knew what to say to that. And while the whole 'kill one to save a thousand' suddenly made a lot more sense, it didn't explain what 'fate' had to do with anything or how Cross had known about Collins at all.

"Okay, so, that's what happened then, what about now?" Anthea inquired.

"I haven't the slightest idea." John said honestly. "I actually thought Cross was dead... there was a rumor to that effect, over a year ago. Something about Chicago and a bunch of warehouses that were blown-up."

Mycroft and Anthea nodded, they'd most likely heard all about that, certainly a lot more than John could have... except for one thing.

"You heard about Chicago then?" Anthea asked right then. "I thought you'd been in Afghanistan that summer or something."

"You ought to remember the base was filled with about as many Americans as British." John told her with a small smile. "I think one of the guys actually had family in Chicago or something like that. In any case, everyone talked about it for a few days..."

Mycroft and Anthea nodded, such things were easy enough to believe, and no secret at all. The former army-captain was also ready if they happened to mention the delay just past Moravia, where there had been that awful derailment, to such a point that he and the other discharged military traveling to Afghanistan for the memorial ceremony that summer in the end had to be taken in a military aircraft in order not to be late. As far as most people were concerned John had spent that day simply admiring the views that particular foreign country had to offer, there was no reason to believe anything interesting at all had happened to him that day, no reason at all...

Eventually Mycroft seemed satisfied enough with John's recount of things and, while neither of them could be sure what had become of Cross, if he was still alive at all, or how exactly the magazine article had come to be, there was little they could do to get the answers they were seeking (or at least, they didn't know how to, neither the politician nor his PA could have ever expected the 'ordinary' doctor to know anymore than what he'd already told them).

In the end, only one thing still mattered to John:

"What will all this mean for Sherlock?" He inquired, quite serious.

"I'm still working on it, but I hope to have him released by the end of the week." Mycroft stated with no small measure of satisfaction. "After all, if a well-known international assassin has claimed to be responsible for the murder of Charles Magnussen, there's just no way Sherlock Holmes could be responsible, is it?"

"Of course." John agreed affably.

There were no more questions and, before the hour was up, John was in a car on his way to the clinic where he worked (a message had been sent ahead that he would be late for personal reasons so no one was worried about him). The rest of the day passed on quite the same. Then came the end of his shift and John made his way to his place after picking up some Chinese take-out. He'd just turned the kitchen-light on when he noticed the piece of paper left carefully on top of the counter. He didn't quite know the handwriting, but the signature at the end of the message was telling enough.

 _I pay all my debts, my good doctor, as does Fate. X_

John didn't say a word, instead simply taking the piece of paper with him to the kitchen, where he turned on the hob and then held the paper close until there was nothing but ashes left. Appetite forgotten in the unexpected turn of events, the former soldier picked his coat back up before turning off the light and stepping back onto the street, a single sentence being whispered into the empty night:

"Thank you..."

 **xXx**

The situation progressed much as Mycroft had expected. At the end of the week John found himself standing just outside one of the elder Holmes's cars, waiting for Sherlock to step out of Belmarsh prison. After the article in the magazine it'd come out that he was in prison as a suspect for Magnussen's murder, though the official version was that mistakes had been made in the preliminary investigation (Cross's fame made it so no one was really blamed in the end, they just let Sherlock go). Things had been wrapped up in such a way John wouldn't be surprised if even the policemen and MI5 Agents who'd been at Appledore that night had begun to doubt who'd actually killed the media magnate.

There were some quiet pleasantries exchanged before the two men climbed into the car, on route to 221B, each of them deep in thought for their own reasons. It was until they were inside the flat, right after John had pulled off his coat and hung it just inside the door and walked straight into the kitchen to make some tea that Sherlock began picking up on a few things: like the fact that John had keys for the flat, he'd left his coat; there was also a scarf and a hat that belonged to him on the small coffee table just inside the door, and a pair of snow-boots... John had moved back into 221B...

"John..." He began, not quite sure how to ask the all too important question.

John peeked out the kitchen, empty mugs in one hand and a box of tea-bags in the other, the water was close to boiling.

"Oh, right." The doctor realized what Sherlock must be seeing. "I moved back yesterday, hope you don't mind. Mrs. Hudson said it was alright."

"I don't mind..." Sherlock murmured, seemingly still trying to fully grasp the situation. "John, what about Mary?"

"Gone." John answered with a shrug, turning his back on his friend as the tea-kettle whistled. "She left a few days ago, haven't seen her since. The annulment should be coming out soon."

It was the truth, Mary was gone, she'd left the same day John had talked to Mycroft and Anthea though, if the doctor was honest with himself, he hadn't actually noticed until the next morning. After burning the message in his kitchen he'd gone out for a walk, then to the pub, had returned very late (or early, depending on how one saw it) and more than a little bit drunk (both on the drinks he'd had and the sheer relief that Sherlock would soon be free again). He hadn't made it any farther than the couch. Then the next morning he'd found the bed still made, and a short letter from his 'wife' claiming she couldn't live like that anymore and was 'setting him free'.

"Annulment?" Sherlock's honestly puzzled question broke John's line of thought.

"She didn't know it, but I added a paternity test to the list of things that were done during the last check-up." John explained with a sigh. "I had a feeling, and it was confirmed. The baby she carries isn't mine. I filed for an annulment based on that. If that fails I can always explain she married me under a false identity and therefore our marriage isn't truly valid, though Mycroft has already promised to help."

"Do you know where she is?" Sherlock asked softly.

"No idea." And truth was, he didn't care either.

The former army-man stepped out of the kitchen right then, carrying two cups of tea, he placed one on the table besides Sherlock's armchair, before sitting on his own. Sherlock looked at him, at his own chair, the tea... he looked almost lost.

"Sherlock...?" John asked, placing his tea down and standing again. "Are you alright?"

"I don't know." The consulting detective admitted in a whisper. "I thought... I thought it was over John. After Magnussen and Appledore and... they were talking about sending me to prison for life, and then someone suggested I could be more useful serving... I was going to be sent back to Eastern Europe, on a mission for the MI6... a suicide mission."

John felt as if he'd just been punched, right in the middle of his stomach, all the air pushed right out of his lungs... it was so shocking he didn't know what to do, what to say, and just like that, his mind was pulled straight into the past:

 _John was walking by a riverbank, in the south region of the Czech Republic. The transport that should have taken him and a number of other war veterans south (they had to be in Afghanistan in two days) had been delayed until further notice, without apparent reason. John knew just enough German to be able to speak to some of the locals and learn there had been some awful accident with a train coming out of Moravia (a bit north of where they were). No one knew for sure what had happened but the survivors spoke of three shooters and a confrontation that ended with a terrible derailing, right when they were miles off ground-level._

 _Having been warned that the sooner they could be expected to leave (they had to request aerial transport and that wasn't easy) was the next day John and a few of the others had decided to play tourist for the rest of the day. Most had gone to the town itself, wanting to have some fun; John decided he'd rather be alone... he'd spent a lot of time alone since his best friend's death..._

 _What he never expected was what he found several miles down the riverbank. Two bodies laying, unconscious, on the rocks. The man was dead, as John could confirm after failing to find a pulse on his too-cold skin; he'd apparently received a shot to the heart, though from a rather odd angle if the veteran said so himself. However, the other one, the younger man, he was still alive. More than a little hurt, but still breathing._

 _John didn't even think twice about it, his instincts taking over as he began working on first aid. He was still doing that when he suddenly felt a gun on the side of his neck._

" _What the hell do you think you're doing?" A gruff voice demanded._

 _The former army captain silently cursed the gun that he'd left back in London (seeing how he was traveling with other former soldiers, and the gun wasn't exactly legal... he'd known he couldn't take it with him without causing unwanted questions)._

" _If you don't mind," He said in the most level tone he could. "The man is dead but the boy is still alive, and I'd rather keep him that way."_

" _Who are you?" The armed guy insisted._

" _John Watson." He didn't see the point in trying to lie. "I'm a doctor."_

" _You're also a soldier." The other said knowingly._

" _Was." John corrected. "Was invalided a few years ago... Now, will you let me do my job?"_

 _The gun was moved away and John got working again. The boy was alive, though still quite seriously injured, John had no doubt he'd need a visit to a very good hospital if he hoped to not end up crippled after whatever had happened (John wasn't a fool, he saw enough to deduce those must be two of the three shooters that had been spoken off, still he didn't mention it)._

" _When will the kid be able to get up and moving again?" The armed-guy, an old man by the looks of it, asked John._

" _Honestly, I don't know." The doctor admitted. "He needs more help than I can give him. With the right doctors and hospital he'll probably fully recover in six months, maybe a year..."_

" _No good." The old man interrupted. "If the kid stops moving for a week he'll get killed. And his old man won't be able to protect him anymore."_

 _The quick glance at the body was enough to tell John that the dead man was the kid's father, it made him wonder even more what had happened exactly, but he didn't ask. Something told him it was better if he didn't get involved in that mess more than absolutely necessary._

" _What about you?" He couldn't help but ask anyway._

" _What about me?" The other retorted._

" _Well, it's obvious you know the two, if they are father and son, what are you to them?" John elaborated in the question._

" _I'm an old friend of Cross's, the father." The old man clarified. "Call me Pekwarsky."_

 _It would be until later that John would remember just where he'd seen the older shooter before, the shock and adrenaline as he worked on saving the young man making it impossible right then._

" _A pleasure." The doctor replied automatically. "Want me to help you get the boy to a hospital?"_

" _No hospital around here will help him any." Pekwarsky shook his head._

" _I can't just leave him here!"_

" _I'm not saying that, doctor. I'll be taking the boy elsewhere, to get the right kind of treatment. The one that will allow him to survive, to strike back at those who just keep taking from him..."_

" _Are you sure that's a good idea? To push the boy down a path of vengeance, after what already happened to him and his father?"_

" _That boy is already on a path of revenge doctor, do not fool yourself. The only difference is that I will be pointing him in the right direction, give him the information others failed to provide."_

 _He didn't explain more, and John chose not to ask._

" _It just..." he began after an extended silence. "It doesn't seem right. He's young still, has his whole life ahead of him... if the father was your friend, if you care for the son at all, shouldn't you try to help him move on, rather than seek revenge?"_

" _Perhaps that's what a normal, sane man would do." The old man shrugged. "But I've never claimed to be either. And neither did Cross. Wesley is just like him... even if he just found that out recently." He made a pause and then added. "And tell me doctor, if all you had was ripped away from you, wouldn't you do anything to hold on to at least a part of it? At least the memory? Excuse me but you don't seem like the kind of man who just moves on..."_

 _John knew he was right. It was in everything he'd done (or not done) since Sherlock's suicide. The crippling grief that had pushed him into needing his cane for almost a year, until somehow Sarah and Harry managed to wake him up just enough to get moving again (and how badly he must have been, that Harry had gotten sober and actually stayed that way). No, he definitely wasn't the kind to move on; and yet, as he saw the two bodies on that riverbank, one dead, one alive; as he contemplated what might become of the young man who even then was only holding onto life by the skin of his teeth; he wondered if maybe he should learn to do it, to move on..._

Days later, while still in Afghanistan, John had heard the news of what had happened in Chicago. There was a single blurry picture being shown, of a young man walking out of the rubble, nowhere near enough for anyone to know who he might be... no one but John, who could remember quite clearly the boy on the riverbank. He'd no idea how he was standing, how he'd managed what he'd done, but it helped him make up his mind.

At the end of the summer he was back in London and the first thing he did was ask the pretty nurse who'd been eyeing him for a while on a date... He'd decided to move on, finally.

Then again, considering everything that followed, maybe moving on hadn't been the best idea. Maybe Pekwarsky had been right about fighting to keep what they loved, what could be kept. The boy had nothing but revenge, over those who'd taken his father, and who knows what else. But John had gotten a true miracle, because the one he'd lost was back, twice over, he'd just been too blind to see earlier just how fortunate he was... well, not anymore.

"You're not going anywhere." He told Sherlock strongly, going to stand before him. "And neither am I. Neither of us are going anywhere."

"John..." The consulting detective seemed honestly shocked by the sudden change of his (only) friend the way he spoke, the way he moved... "I..."

"No Sherlock." John interrupted, placing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders purposefully. "I've lost you before, twice already, it won't happen again, never. If you ever need to go anywhere, I'm going with you. No matter what, or who, or where... nothing at all. We're staying together."

Sherlock blinked several times, very quickly, as his mind fought to process what he was hearing, wondering if John really meant what he thought...

"You're not leaving me?" He asked, very quietly, almost cringing at the level of sentiment.

"Never." John assured him strongly. "And you're not leaving me either. Promise it Sherlock."

"I... I promise." Sherlock nodded, swallowing almost convulsively.

For a second or two, neither of them spoke, and then...

"Now what?" Sherlock asked, still feeling a bit unsure of himself.

John was moving back, Mary was out of the picture, he was free... they both were. Did that mean they were going back to how things had been? Or...

John moved in, before Sherlock realized what was going on, it took a few seconds but suddenly he could feel a mouth on his. John was kissing him! After a breath or two, the detective wound his own arms around John's neck and was kissing back just as enthusiastically.

In the depths of his mind, John wondered if one could fight and move on at the same time... he didn't know, wasn't sure the mere idea had any logic at all. Then again, something must have become of the boy. If there was a 'Cross' again going around, even though the one who'd shot John (or Collins) in Afghanistan was dead... he'd felt indebted to John (probably for the riverbank) enough to claim responsibility for Magnussen's murder and then... who knows? Hopefully the kid would one day find his balance in life. John could say he certainly was. It was Sherlock, the two of them together, just like it was supposed to be.

* * *

In case anyone's curious. Next week will feature 'Wanted' again, more in-depth than here, though once again you won't need to have watched the movie. If you like action movies I think it's entertaining, though aside from the handsome James McAvoy (or Angelina Jolie, if you prefer) it's not that great, I don't think.

As always, all comments and suggestions are welcome.

Thank you so much for all the comments, kudos and bookmarks you've given thus far in this series. I love you all!

See you around!


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